Disappear (29 page)

Hargreaves indicated, with a sweep of his hand, the documents on his desk. ‘The photograph in the folder is of a man named Barry Doolan. Miner. Works in the Southern Star mines at Red Hills in north-west Queensland.’

Dreydon looked at the picture. ‘The man doesn’t know how lucky he is. Fifty grand, you say?’

‘Fifty grand,’ Hargreaves confirmed. ‘And this bloke won’t say no. He’d probably accept less. He’s in financial straits with a sick child and another on the way. One of his best mates is dying too. Believed to have suffered asbestos poisoning in one of the mines which they’ve since closed.’

‘So he hates his employer.’

‘With a passion.’

‘But he has no knowledge of explosives.’

‘He doesn’t need to,’ said Hargreaves. ‘The unit will be ready made, packaged, easy to handle. All he has to do is plant it, set the timer, and then walk away whistlin’ Dixie, a king for a day, because that’s about how long his fifty grand will last him with his problems.’ Hargreaves couldn’t help but chuckle.

‘And my job is to make sure he’s fully briefed and that he agrees to go through with it.’

‘Easiest assignment you’ll ever have. Just make sure Doolan is clear about the objective here. To cause extensive damage and unfavourable media attention to Southern Star. Doolan will like that.’

‘And your client?’

‘It is essential to my client,’ Hargreaves explained, ‘that the sale of Southern Star Mining to the Canadian buyer doesn’t go ahead. My client is certain the explosion at the mine will stop the sale.’

‘Why?’

‘The damage should be enough to dissuade any potential buyer. To cap it off, anonymous calls will be made to the media by my people, informing them that the bomb was planted by an activist group protesting the cover-up of asbestos poisoning at the site.’

‘Who is this client?’ Dreydon asked, fully aware he wouldn’t get an answer. He just enjoyed stirring Hargreaves.

‘You know better than to ask that.’ Hargreaves laughed. He always enjoyed Dreydon’s bare-faced cheek. ‘Even I don’t know who the real client is, and I couldn’t give a fuck anyway. That way, he can’t be traced.’

‘Someone who’s really got it in for the Kaplan group,’ Dreydon said, ‘and who’s got enough inside information to come up with Doolan’s name and circumstances.’

‘Never mind all that. The important thing as far as we’re concerned is timing. It’s essential this explosion happens tomorrow. Move like lightning on this one, Dreydon.’

The small man with the grim countenance flashed a snake-like grin. ‘Then you’d better tell me who I see in Queensland to pick up the device. I’ve got a plane to catch.’ Later, as he left, Dreydon wondered what else this mysterious client might have done to cause trouble for the Kaplans.

John Rosen spent several hours that afternoon cleaning up the papers in his study, sorting them into a number of neat files.

At 4.25 p.m. he took a dozen photographs from an unmarked packet and threw them on the fire he’d started in the small, metal fireplace built into his study wall. He then took the .45 automatic handgun from his desk drawer, looked about at the familiar surroundings one last time, then placed the pistol in his mouth. The taste of steel was on his tongue, his lips enfolding the smooth hardness of the barrel.

Margaret Rosen was on the back porch when she heard the bang. Fear stabbed at her insides like a prod from a smouldering iron. She ran into the house, flung open the door to the study.

By the time she knelt down, weeping hysterically, beside the body of her husband, the last photograph had curled up and crumbled to ash. The image on that photo, of John Rosen in a compromising position with a smooth skinned teenage boy had been erased forever, unseen, only existing now as a suspicion in the mind of Neil Lachlan.

Jennifer went inside and opened the envelope delivered by the courier from the Stuart James Detective Agency’s secretary. It contained hard copies of the emailed replies from the immortalist groups. Jennifer was surprised that all the groups contacted had responded. Names such as the L.A. Youth Preservation Society and the Younger-Longer Society ran past her eyes as she scanned the copies.

As she moved from one reply to the next, frustration welled up inside her. Not one of the groups had ever seen or heard of Brian Parkes or anyone matching his description. And not one, despite their knowledge of advanced medical procedures, shed any light on the strange incision to Brian’s jugular vein.

Dear Mother,

He knows. He’s known all along and now that I’ve realised it I wonder how I could’ve been so blind. It seems so obvious, the only real explanation.

If I’d figured it out before I could’ve taken steps to be free of the surveillance. I don’t know how but I would’ve found a way, just as I’m doing now to ensure the watching doesn’t start again.

That’s not all though, mother. I’m taking steps to ensure the last remaining links between me and my needs are eliminated, along with the two people closest to stumbling across the truth. I wanted you to know that, whatever happens, I won’t be caught – or stopped. I’ll be okay.

My new beginning – which started with the Van Helegen woman – won’t be cut short. In many respects it’s just getting started. A new life, unlike anything I’ve known before.

I won’t be able to write again, not for a long time, at least. It’s simply too dangerous now – neither of us can run the risk of someone seeing these letters. You have been destroying them, haven’t you?

If all goes well over the next twenty-four hours then the people getting too close will be gone – effectively ruling out the possibility you’ll be tracked down, or your belongings searched. But, as a precaution, make sure all your copies are gone.

I’m sure you understand. The letters were fine when no one actually knew about the murders – before the victims returned to the places from which they’d vanished – but from here on in that secrecy is a thing of the past. Circumstances dicate that.

Don’t worry though that you won’t be hearing from me. You’ll still be able to follow my handiwork. I intend to continue, sizing up each situation in the guise of a jogger and using the garrotte method on the chosen ones. My Van Helegen and Dawson killings made big news. I’m famous now. The police and the public expect another and I won’t keep them waiting too long.

The murders aren’t a secret any more, they’ll make big news, and you’ll be able to follow them in the media.

I know it’s not the same as a personal letter, but it’ll have to do for now.

I admit I’m feeling a little heady about my newfound notoriety. They call me The Garrotte Killer.

It’s different to the way it was years ago, when no one knew about the killings. It was a lot safer that way but, strangely enough, I don’t miss it.

Just as I don’t miss the rotten surveillance that kept me miserable for so long. The one responsible for that is about to suffer. And you’ll be glad to know they will suffer in the manner that will hurt them the most.

There’s one final thing I need to say. I’ve never blamed you for any of the bad things. Consequently, I know you don’t blame me for the path I’ve taken.

I chose power over weakness.

And now the upper hand is mine once more.

Wish me luck, mother. My return has only just begun.

It was the kind of story every newsman dreams of. The sudden, inexplicable suicide of the man running the state-wide hunt for the garrotte killer.

The 5 p.m. news spots on every Sydney radio station broadcast the few facts known. The 6 p.m. tv news and their websites gave blanket coverage, including the brief press conference given by the chief commissioner.

Deputy Commissioner Ed Razell also fronted the media, offering his condolences to Rosen’s family. He expressed the force’s admiration for their colleague’s long and distinguished career - and announced that the hunt for the garrotte murderer would continue with another senior man stepping in to the breach.

No speculation was given for Rosen’s suicide, apart from the inference that he’d been under great stress.

The jogger absorbed the news over the radio as he drove at a discreet speed past the home of Jennifer Parkes. He saw Jennifer’s car in the driveway. As he’d suspected, she was spending more time at home since the investigation of her husband’s death. Did she have the specific Winterstone file he’d expected to find in James’ car? He expected it must be in the house somewhere.

There were three things he needed to do to end any chance of discovery. First, get hold of the Winterstone audit file - the file he had never suspected had been kept, with the others, all these years. The second and third objectives were to remove both Jennifer Parkes and Neil Lachlan from the scene. They had already circled too close to the truth, even if they weren’t aware of it at this stage.

The jogger’s plan for Jennifer Parkes was perfect. He would do the totally unexpected: kill her in her own home. Another random strike by the garrotte murderer. At the same time he’d search the premises for the Winterstone audit.

He drove to a nearby café for a bite to eat and a cappuccino. It would feel very strange -
eerie
- to snuff out the life of this woman, as he had so many years before to her husband.

Perhaps it had always been destined.

It wouldn’t be long before night fell. As soon as darkness descended over the city it would be time to unleash his alter ego once again.

Minutes after the jogger turned his car out of the street, Carly Parkes entered from the opposite end. She drove into the driveway of her mother’s house and entered the lounge room, sullen faced, quiet.

Jennifer had the radio on in one room and the television blaring from another. A news flash was just ending, the shock news of the suicide quickly replaced by a thirty second commercial for a new soft drink. Healthy, vibrant young people cavorted in the surf.

‘John Rosen shot himself,’ Jennifer told Carly. ‘I knew something was very odd with that man.’

‘I heard it in the car,’ Carly replied.

‘How’s Rory?’

‘Okay.’ Carly’s reply was cold, dismissive.

‘Something wrong?’ Jennifer sensed that something was very wrong. It registered with her that as well as appearing withdrawn, her daughter had returned without the change of clothes she’d gone to fetch.

Carly shook her head, walked out of the living room and through to the back of the house. She wasn’t in the mood to reveal to her mother what she’d found, wasn’t certain if she ever would be. She didn’t care for the old “I told you so” look in the eyes.

If anything, she was intrigued to find that she herself was not all that surprised. She’d half known she’d been fooling herself about Rory all along. His social conscience was something he brought forth only when it suited him. His passion for political change was dwarfed by his passion for anything in a skirt. Today, Carly realised, she’d simply seen, more clearly, the colours Rory had exhibited all the time.

‘How long will Daddy be away, Mum?’

‘Another three days, honey. Now, please don’t ask me again. You’ve asked that question four or five times a day for the past week.’ Meg Tanner sighed and kept stirring the pot of vegetable soup. She didn’t like Don being away any more than the kids did. Don was a systems analyst for a large engineering firm. For the third time this year he’d been asked to undertake a trouble shooting project on one of the firm’s sites in New Guinea.

Eight-year old Jason shrugged, then bounded out into the back yard making loud, whelping Indian noises.
Dances With Wolves
had made a big impression on him.

Her daughter, Samantha, fifteen, wandered into the kitchen and peered over her mother’s shoulder at the brew. ‘Smells wonderful.’

‘Back off, vulture.’ Meg suppressed a laugh. ‘I’ll be another ten minutes yet.’

‘Late again. Typical,’ Samantha replied with a wink. She sauntered back into the lounge room. Meg watched her, glad her daughter had inherited the long, lean limbs and dark hair of her father.

She focused her attention back on the boiling brew, or meant to, but from the corner of her eye she saw Jason balancing like a trapeze artiste on the fence at the back of the property. She was about to call out to tell him to get down, when he suddenly misjudged his footing and toppled down into their neighbour’s yard. She didn’t see him hit the earth on the other side, but she felt the falling sensation in the pit of her stomach. Silly boy. How many times had she warned him? She didn’t expect the blood-curdling scream that followed.

‘Oh, God, Mum, tell your son to stop making such disgusting noises,’ said Samantha from the other room.

Meg didn’t reply. She felt a stab of intense fear as the scream continued. Dropping the wooden spoon into the soup she raced out. As she approached the back fence she could see, through the thin space between the palings, the garden rake left in their neighbour’s yard. Its sharp, steely spikes were facing the sky.

She launched herself up the side of the fence, clambering over the top. ‘Oh my God!’ she cried out as the other side came fully in to view.

The Southern Star colliery, 500 kilometres north west of Brisbane, had become one of Queensland’s major coal producers and was also one of the most modern mining complexes in Australia. Since its inception it had continually promoted itself as one of the safest of all mining projects, with stringent safety precautions and an enviable record.

The exception, though Barry Doolan, was the health of the workers. In the last fifteen years, over fifty men had been forced by ill health into early retirement. All had serious lung, throat and heart disorders. Some had inoperable cancers. The bastards didn’t promote that.

All had worked in Shaft Number Five, which maintenance crews suspected of asbestos leaks from the underground ventilation system. The union, in association with the local health authorities, had forced an inquiry from the Government. A year after Kaplan Corp had bought into the mine the inquiry had stopped. By this time Shaft Number Five was permanently closed, its uses fulfilled. Newer, deeper tunnels and underground galleries had taken its place. There were many personnel changes around the same time. A new maintenance team was appointed.